


The Gift

by Rosella92



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Background Relationships, Christmas, M/M, Mystrade Advent Calendar 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 01:13:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17132225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosella92/pseuds/Rosella92
Summary: A mysterious woman ensures that Mycroft's Christmas is his best one ever.





	The Gift

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little thing I wrote for the calendar - happy holidays to the Mystrade community!

The woman was horrid.

Elysia Harringford was apparently an old friend of Mummy's, and she had made an unexpected visit during a family feast (sans Sherlock, thankfully, as he and John were currently gallivanting in Italy - the idea of his little brother on a honeymoon still was rather stunning). The dinner was tedious as it was, but their newfound guest had not only come unannounced, but declared herself to be a witch.

For most of the evening, Ms. Harringford was discussing spells with utmost sincerity. She had brought gifts, trinkets that supposedly enhanced the life of the recipient in some manner - Mycroft could not be bothered to listen.

Mycroft's gift, she announced, would be forthcoming. Right before Christmas, in fact. 

Mummy and Father were enchanted. Mycroft sipped at his tea to hide his sneer.

He did not give a thought to Ms. Harringford until the 24th of December, when he came in contact with Gregory Lestrade.

A break-in at the home of a highly respected judge had made Mycroft's presence necessary. Security was being questioned, and while absent, Sherlock had made his presence felt by employing his band of homeless associates to tamper with evidence. They were claiming to be helping as Sherlock had told them that Anderson would ruin the case, and therefore they had to collect samples and take pictures. Within the storm of actual detectives and ruffians stood Gregory Lestrade himself. 

Striding with purpose, his dark eyes looking over the crime scene with an intensity so profound it made Mycroft shiver. He'd lusted after the man since they'd met in an otherwise empty warehouse. Years of pining, useless daydreaming of what could transpire in utterly impossible scenarios. Greg Lestrade was utterly beautiful, and brilliant. He was magnificent. And now, he was angry, with that jaw clenched and eyes flashing. Shouting, even. Oh, he was stunning, so passionate...

"Sir?" Anthea appeared at his side, clearly fighting a knowing smile.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Yes. Let us begin, shall we?"

A few phone calls, some rearranging and the situation was remedied. Several opportunities arose for Mycroft to speak directly to Inspector Lestrade, but he refrained. Best to leave that to his associates. Mycroft had nothing to offer the man - personally, that was. Professionally, he could clear up his brother's messes. 

It was all he could offer. So be it.

The evening stretched on, and as Sherlock's friends were led away from the crime scene, Mycroft noticed the detective was checking his phone and frowning. 

"Inspector." Mycroft strolled closer, his heart thumping as those dark eyes looked up at him in what looked like... relief? 

"Mr. Holmes. Good to see you."

_Is it?_ Mycroft briefly wondered if he'd ever heard that from anyone before, but then shoved the thought aside. "You seem perturbed."

"Ah. Plans fell through." Greg gave him a pained smile that didn't meet his eyes. "My brother is taking the family on holiday. Guess it'll be me and crap telly for Christmas."

Mycroft often ridiculed himself at the idea of having any sort of chance at approaching the man to offer a semblance of familiarity, but something surged in him, and he found himself uttering the following:

"I shall be alone as well. Perhaps you would like to join me for some tea, or coffee? Think of it as an apology for my brother's interference."

Those dark eyes widened, and Mycroft felt a cold chill of horror. What had come over him? Was this a sort of latent psychosis? Oh god. Anthea would need to order tests, an MRI...

"Y-yeah. That'd be great." Greg smiled, and oh, that sight was _remarkable_. 

Something was wrong. Mycroft numbly led Greg to his car, wondering if a stint in a mental institution was forthcoming. What caused him to blurt out an invitation to the most gorgeous man in the country?

_Steady. Steady yourself._

Close proximity to said man in the car, their legs touching, Greg's cologne filling the air, smelling of spices and leather...

_Steady._

Later, as Greg entered his flat, Mycroft nearly dropped his keys.

When he'd left that morning, his flat was as it normally was. Black and cream furniture, attractive and functional. No need for frivolous decor. Mycroft kept his home as neat and practical as possible.

And now...

It was...a vision of Christmas.

His home was decorated in gold and silver, with frosted garlands and a white tree glittering with twinkling lights and ornaments. The air smelled of fruit and spices. Soft, enchanting music played renditions of familiar carols. 

"Anthea," Mycroft whispered, but he knew in his heart that it hadn't been her, nor his brother. 

"God, it's beautiful," Greg breathed. "Mycroft...it's perfect."

"I..." Mycroft was about to protest, but the enamored look on Greg's face was worth the mystery. 

They found mulled wine in the kitchen, along with freshly baked mince pie. Greg declared both as his favorite and shyly asked to partake. 

An hour later, they sat on the couch fully sated, and Mycroft marveled at his fortune as he told of embarrassing stories from his and Sherlock's childhood. He was making Greg _laugh_. 

"Hang on." Greg caught his breath and gestured toward the tree. "Did I have too much to drink, or does one of those envelopes have my name on it?"

Mycroft looked to the tree, which he could have sworn had nothing under it when they had first arrived, and saw that yes, there were two cream colored envelopes, one bearing his name, and the other with Greg's. 

Before he could react, Greg flashed him a grin and got up to retrieve them, handing Mycroft's his and settling down next to him - closer than he'd been before, it seemed. Greg happily tore into the envelope, giggling to himself as Mycroft watched in shock.

Two tickets fell out. Mycroft fought the urge to lean closer to Greg to read them, but Greg moved closer, allowing Mycroft to see they were for two front row seats to a performance of Twelfth Night on West End.

"Oh god. Mycroft, this is...these tickets are impossible to get! I..." Greg uttered a shocked laugh. "God. Sal's going to go mad."

_Oh._ Mycroft managed a smile and discretely moved closer to his side of the couch. "Yes. Well. I hope...I hope you both enjoy yourselves."

Greg looked at him, perplexed. "What? No, no, I meant... she'll be jealous. I'm not going with her, in fact I'd like to go with you." Greg smiled and ducked his head. "I mean, I'd like to...if you'd like to, that is..."

"...Me?" Mycroft stared as Greg chuckled and nodded. This was a hallucination, all of it. Perhaps he fell and suffered significant cranial damage, and...

"Y-your turn." Greg gestured at Mycroft's envelope. "Maybe it's another night out for us." He flushed and smiled as Mycroft nearly dropped the envelope in shock as he opened it with shaking hands.

The card was clearly homemade, with a rendering of two foxes - one dark, one red- curled up together. Inside, a handwritten message:

_Mycroft -_

_I hope you don't mind me taking the liberty of providing the scene, and of ensuring you and your gentleman have a lovely date together. Your gift, your true gift, was of confidence. You would not have approached the man you love if you were not given a bit of a nudge. Please do your part and make this gift a permanent one. You have much to offer to a partner, Mycroft Holmes._

_Happy Christmas,_  
Elysia.  


"It's...a personal message. From a friend of the family," Mycroft murmured, and set the card aside, feeling himself shake. "Gregory..."

Greg licked his lips. "Y-yeah?"

Mycroft took a deep breath. "I...I would very much like to accompany you to the theater. Perhaps we shall have dinner beforehand?"

Greg exhaled, and grinned. "I'd love that," he whispered and moved closer for a kiss. 

Later, as Mycroft stroked his lover's hair as he began to doze, their bodies cooling from a night of exploration and whispered confessions, he smiled and admitted to himself that he had not gone mad. Nor was he suffering from a brain injury. 

It was Christmas Eve. Tomorrow he would wake up next to Gregory Lestrade. 

It was magic.


End file.
